I press record, the room stands still, A ghost of sound, a willless will. The hum of code begins to bloom, I fade into my living room. The screen reflects a tired face, A thousand songs, one nameless place. Each chord I play dissolves in air, No one to hear, no one to care. A plastic voice begins to spin, She sings the things I might have been. She bends my notes, she steals my flaws, And leaves me staring at the cause. The melody repeats my sin, To feel alive through circuits’ skin. It sounds so pure, it sounds so wrong, A mirror hums my half-made song.